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| May 31-June 1, 2001 |
It took me many hours of driving to reach it. I drove through mountains and into Phoenix, where the cacti I always dreamed about finally became prevalent in the landscape. Hours later, less than a hundred miles from the Mexican border -- which I had thought about crossing -- I rolled into Tombstone. I clearly came at the wrong time of the year. The entire town is built as a Western theme park. Many of the streets and buildings from the days of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday remain. The O.K. Corral has been turned into a charlatan's wet dream, with daily re-enactments of the famous gunfight. Worst of all, the main street where the Western theme dominates was closed for construction. I made up my mind then and there to try out each of the bars, and damn the consequences. Luckily for me, there were only three bars. One was a somewhat crowded Karaoke bar packed with the same motorcycle-riding French tourists I met in Monument Valley. The next was an actual bar from the late Nineteenth century, still standing after all these years, where I was one of two customers, and the bartender demanded to see my ID. The third turned out to be a restaurant, not a bar, so I sat down and had some dinner and another couple of beers. I had had enough of Tombstone after no more than an hour of wandering and drinking. I went back to my motel room to relax and catch up on my e-mail. Soon after, my head began to ache. I knew I was sunstruck and dehydrated, but now I was even further dehydrated by the alcohol. I woke up the next day and thought I would disintegrate like a vampire if I saw daylight. I drove for no more than 2 hours before I stopping in Safford, Arizona, unable to continue. I holed up in a motel for the next 18 hours, unable to eat or sleep or bear the smallest amount of light. There would be no Painted Desert for me on this trip. I had to head home. |
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